


Mistakes We Keep

by abluevixen (knightofbows)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Magic, Angst, Anxiety, Credence and Newt are bros, Denial of Feelings, Depression, F/M, Gun Violence, Irish!Percival, M/M, Mental Illness, POV Alternating, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Threats of Violence, Tina and Percival are bros, Violence, artist!Credence, dark themes, mobster!Percival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-21 00:00:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10673460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightofbows/pseuds/abluevixen
Summary: Credence should look away. He should slink back into his apartment and close the window as quietly as possible. If this Mr. Graves realizes he’s been seen assaulting another person, he could easily track Credence down, make him pay similarly as the other man had. But Credence can’t tear his eyes away. Something like defiance keeps him seated on the window sill, still as death, but unashamed in his staring. Perhaps gazes have weight, because it only takes the span of another cigarette drag before Mr. Graves looks up to the brick-faced building where Credence lives.He wasn’t wrong to label Mr. Graves as a predator, because when their eyes meet, Credence realizes he can’t move even if he wanted to. But there’s no point in showing fear now that he’s been spotted. Does Mr. Graves know how much Credence has seen? Does Mr. Graves even care? Credence doesn’t, not really. He’s too busy cataloging the darkness of Mr. Graves’ eyes, how his dark hair is slicked back and tidy with faint grey at the temples, how the ghostly streetlights cast him as some ethereal envoy of shadow. How apt a name as Mr. Graves for a man that reminds Credence of Death.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> fuck it.
> 
> this can be probably considered an alternate universe to the fic i'm coauthoring with [yogurtgun](http://archiveofourown.org/users/yogurtgun/pseuds/yogurtgun/) called [and the world stood still](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10708407/).
> 
> same percival, different credence, 100% foxtricks.

Credence returns home with his professor’s latest critiques looping in his head. _Not innovative enough. Not composed well enough. Not good enough._ Climbing the stairs of his apartment building feeds the dread growing in his chest.

Though he knows his small studio is vacant, that nothing there waits for him except the lumpy mattress of his bed and another sleepless night, living under his mother’s roof drilled a sort of primal fear into him. Coming home with less than stellar remarks from instructors lead to beatings or belittling that made him do the damage without her ever holding the belt. If he were lucky, he’d only be sent to bed without supper. He’s been on his own for years, but whenever a professor is particularly brutal during critique, his stomach knots as if he were a young boy again bringing home a disappointing progress report.

He wonders, as he reaches his floor and shuffles down the corridor, if he’ll ever grow out of such feelings. He knows there’s nothing to fear, that he can hang up the phone if his mother decides to be rude. He knows it’s behind him, mostly. But his stomach doesn’t seem to have gotten the message if how it roils is any measure.

Opening his apartment door reveals exactly what he expects: his small, quiet studio apartment. It’s maybe 500 square feet, but he doesn’t need much more. Nor can he afford much more. He’s warm enough in the winter and cool enough in the summer. He’s out of the rain and he has space enough for his art. More or less. He can’t really complain.

But after hours spent in the art studio after class, he’s exhausted. He’d stayed so late, he’d nearly missed the last bus of the evening. Walking home from the university wouldn’t have been so bad—it’s not as if it hasn’t happened before—but it isn’t fun. Navigating the dark streets that lead to his apartment building, somehow avoiding the vagrants and shadier characters, always proved a unique and different challenge every time he did it; so he’d rather not do it at all.

The door falls closed behind him, and he heaves a sigh. He turns on the heat. He toes out of his shoes and props his portfolio bag against the wall beneath the coat hooks in his small foyer. Instead of hanging his coat, he shrugs out of it and drapes it over a second-hand wooden chair of his second-hand table set. Five steps later, he turns on the light, and he collects the electric kettle to fill it—a gift from Newt.

As he sets the water to boil, he’s reminded again of how kind people can be if only given the chance. His parents—his mother in particular—had kept him so isolated, so fearful. Credence smirks, huffs a laugh for no one, bitter and amused in equal measure at how ridiculous he’d been once he finally left for university. What was it Newt had compared him to? A skittish rabbit? Or perhaps some other prey animal. It’s hard to keep up with Newt’s zoological analogies, but Credence wouldn’t trade his dearest friend for the world.

He turns on a few soft lamps as he makes his way into the space that serves as his bedroom. The floorplan is open, which gives him plenty of space for easels and canvases, but he misses the separation a conventional apartment would offer. Back home, his room was as close to a sanctuary as he had, and even when he stays the night at Newt’s, he takes the guest room instead of the couch. Walls offer safety. Doors offer control. Unfortunately, he can’t afford very many on his scholarships and meager part-time wages. He changes from his paint stained jeans and shirt into something more comfortable—a threadbare t-shirt from his undergraduate days, and soft sweat pants. It’s chilly despite the rising temperature, so he tucks himself into a sweater as well. Newt’s, it seems, since the sleeves hang loosely around his arms. It’s cozy, though, so he hasn’t bothered to return it, and Newt hasn’t asked. He runs a hand through his hair, longer now that he’s no longer subjected to his mother’s brutal sheers, and the kettle dings.

Credence returns to the kitchen and drops a tea bag into a thrift-store mug, pins it in place with a spoon for the leaves to steep. He relishes the steam as he pours the water. The tips of his fingers are numb, though it’s hard for him to tell. Though he wraps them around the hot ceramic mug, the pads of his fingers and the hearts of his palms are so scarred and calloused, it’s hard for him to feel much of anything. Part of his mother’s deterrents. She never liked his affinity for art, preferred he pursue something more respectable, something that would pay for her in the twilight of her life. But even if she wanted him to be a surgeon, he would still need his hands. It never made sense for her to damage them so, but then again, _she_ never made much sense. Still, he can paint and draw and sculpt, and he does them all well enough to be awarded a full scholarship both as an undergrad and as a graduate student.

It’s nearly two am by the time his tea has steeped, and though he has an early class the following morning, Credence has resigned himself to a general existence of sleeplessness. The insomnia set it shortly after he’d left home, and once he’d become friends with Newt, their late nights studying together in the library was a sort of mutual suffering. Newt was already preparing for graduate school when they met, but that didn’t stop them from becoming friends. For a while, Newt would stay with Credence through the worst of it, both of them hoping it would eventually fade once Credence grew used to living away from home. But it didn’t, and eventually Newt graduated and went on to his master’s in zoology. He couldn’t stay up with Credence anymore, and Credence grew used to the sort of benign solitude left in his absence. Sometimes he’d crack and call Newt in the middle of the night, have Newt read to him out of some textbook until Credence’s eyes drooped from sheer boredom. Tonight wouldn’t be one of those nights. Adrenaline still coated the walls of his veins from his instructor’s harsh words effortlessly carved into his memory hours earlier.

Credence takes his tea to the window of what constitutes his living room. It’s the one that opens up to the fire escape that zags across the side of the brick-faced building like a lightning bolt. It reminds Credence of a scar whenever he sees it, usually when he’s taking a bag of trash to the communal dumpsters. And he has plenty with which to compare. He’s covered in them, some darker than others, and has caused him many miserable summers where he wears more layers than his friends and peers. Sometimes he’s bold. Sometimes, his skin is pale enough to hide the evidence of his mother’s _tough love_. Were he to tan, however, they show ghostly white. So he avoids the sun as much as he can, despite how he adores its warmth. He tugs up the sleeves of his stolen sweater and opens the window, then takes a seat on the sill. A lecture or scolding from his mother of wasting electricity echoes faintly in his mind, but he smothers it beneath a sip of scalding tea. It faintly burns his tongue, sends him to shivers as it slides down his throat to splash into his knotted stomach.

This perch offers him a clear view of the alley behind his building, and though it’s not necessarily a common footpath, he’s seen plenty of human interactions play out among its dirt and grime. People use it to cut between streets, to avoid traffic lights, to avoid crowds. Some of his most poignant pieces have been inspired by the characters who happened by his window, ignorant of the curious, observant artist who builds entire worlds around their fleeting presence. High as he is on the ninth floor, there’s a bit of a breeze when he sits on the sill as well, which is lovely in the spring and fall. Now, it’s just a cutting chill, but Newt’s sweater and the mug cradled in his hands keep the misery at bay. Just a few moments of fresh air, Credence tells himself. Just long enough to drink his tea, then he’ll attempt to retire for the night. It’s a regular bargain, and one he usually betrays. Still, he makes himself the promise, anyway.

His attention is pulled from the void of his tedious thoughts, the repetition of some compilation of his mother’s scorn and his professor’s disappointment, by raised voices carried to him on the breeze. Curious, he thinks. Not much in terms of sound usually pull him from his thoughts. Usually it’s movement, the way someone carries themselves, what they wear. It’s visual. He leans his head back against the wall and strains his ears to hear the discussion from somewhere below. He catches bits and pieces: something about money, something about consequences, something about a deadline. There’s a second voice, this one higher, shaky. He can’t make out the words, but Credence thinks the person is pleading. Both voices sound like men. As if to test his own observation, Credence dares to look; and yes, there are two men in the alley.

One Credence immediately identifies as the aggressor of the situation. He stands tall with squared shoulders. He’s all straight lines and sharp angles, comprised of shadows in his long, dark coat. Credence thinks he might be smoking, but he can’t quite tell. It could just as easily be steam from another apartment’s heating unit obscuring the view.

The second man, well, Credence doesn’t really know how else to view him beyond prey. He cowers away from the first man, back hunched and hands raised, placating and pleading. It reminds Credence of when a dog shows its belly. It’s this man’s voice that shakes with his begging, but the first man seems unmoved by the show of submission. His clothes are disheveled, and Credence wonders how long this confrontation has gone on—he hadn’t heard anything when he’d first arrived home.

Before Credence can speculate further, the first man advances on the second with three quick strides. Predator grabs Prey by the front of the shirt and punches him hard enough across the face that Credence hears the impact from his apartment window. Credence’s stomach twists, and his hands start shaking; he almost feels his mother striking him just as hard. But she’s not. He’s alone, sitting in his window, watching a man get beaten in a dingy alley. And it is quite the beating. Credence closes his eyes as he hears strike after strike, the rapid-fire words begging the Predator to stop growing wet and gurgly with what Credence knows in his bones is blood. Then there’s a deep “oomph,” and Credence dares to look again.

The Predator has dropped the Prey onto the ground. The Prey scrambles to his feet, wiping his face on the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Don’t make me find you again,” the Predator says, and there’s an interesting roll to his speech. An accent of some sort, perhaps. Credence is surprised he can hear him so clearly.

“Of course, Mr. Graves,” the Prey responds. “You have my word.”

“Now go,” Mr. Graves says. And the Prey immediately complies, hastily stumbling through the alley and out of Credence’s view.

This time Credence sees how Mr. Graves reaches into his coat and pulls out a box of cigarettes. He watches him pull one out with his lips, and cup his hands around the end as he flicks the wheel of a lighter. The spark of flame is bright in the otherwise dark alley, and fades into the embers at the tip of the cigarette. Mr. Graves takes a deep drag, exhaling heavily into the night air.

Credence should look away. He should slink back into his apartment and close the window as quietly as possible. If this Mr. Graves realizes he’s been seen assaulting another person, he could easily track Credence down, make him pay similarly as the other man had. But Credence can’t tear his eyes away. Something like defiance keeps him seated on the window sill, still as death, but unashamed in his staring. Perhaps gazes have weight, because it only takes the span of another cigarette drag before Mr. Graves looks up to the brick-faced building where Credence lives.

He wasn’t wrong to label Mr. Graves as a predator, because when their eyes meet, Credence realizes he can’t move even if he wanted to. But there’s no point in showing fear now that he’s been spotted. Does Mr. Graves know how much Credence has seen? Does Mr. Graves even care? Credence doesn’t, not really. He’s too busy cataloging the darkness of Mr. Graves’ eyes, how his dark hair is slicked back and tidy with faint grey at the temples, how the ghostly streetlights cast him as some ethereal envoy of shadow. How apt a name as _Mr. Graves_ for a man that reminds Credence of Death.

He sips his tea.

Even from so many stories below, the man laughs, and his smile is a bright, wicked thing that skirts a snarl. Credence raises an eyebrow in question, a stupid show of pride. It doesn’t provoke Mr. Graves, however. Instead, the man drops his cigarette and grinds it out with the toe of his polished shoe. He glances up to Credence once more before he shakes his head and turns. When he leaves the alley, Credence imagines the black panther exhibit Newt took him to over the summer; it isn’t hard to define the man’s stride as a prowl.

Credence breathes as if finally released from a thrall. He shakes his head and chugs the rest of his tea before climbing back into his apartment. He shuts and locks the window, then sets his mug in the sink. As he climbs into his bed and buries himself beneath a nest of blankets, the image of Mr. Graves supersedes the specters of his mother and instructors. He isn’t afraid. No, he’s _intrigued_. Of all the petty crimes and brawls he’s seen in the alleyway behind his apartment, nothing has left him so impacted. He kicks away the blankets and fetches his cell phone from his coat pocket. As he returns to bed, he text messages Newt.

_I think I found a new subject for my portfolio_ , he writes. _And I think I just witnessed a crime._

 

###

 

“What do you mean ‘you witnessed a crime’?” Newt demands.

Between classes, Credence agreed to meet with him at a small coffee shop near the university. Apparently, Newt was unaware of just how rough the area Credence lives is, and absolutely had to assure himself Credence was safe. Credence, of course, would never deny his friend such a request, even if he’s exhausted and would have much preferred a nap in the library instead of coffee between classes.

“Some guy beat the crap out of some other guy in the alley behind my apartment,” Credence says. He sips his coffee, the one Newt had been kind enough to buy. Black with two sugars, and of course Newt would remember something silly like that. “It’s not that unusual,” he continues. “I’ve seen fights and drug deals and gross hook ups happen there. Really, it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Newt insists. “It’s the farthest thing from fine. Why haven’t you mentioned this before?”

Credence shrugs. “I didn’t think much of it? Not really, anyway. I mean, like I said, it’s not uncommon.”

“Then why did you feel the need to tell me this time?” Newt raises an eyebrow and tears off a piece of muffin, before popping it into his mouth. “You’ve lived in that flat for ages. If it’s so bloody common, why mention it now?”

“Because no one knows I’ve seen it.”

“What do you mean?”

“The man,” Credence says, dropping his gaze to his coffee. He spins the cup nervously between his hands. “The man who did the beating. He saw me.”

“He _what_?”

“He saw me,” Credence repeats. “He knows I witnessed him beating the other guy up.”

“Alright,” Newt says with a vicious sort of finality. “You need to pack your essentials, and you’ll stay with me. It wouldn’t be hard for this man to find out which apartment is yours if you were watching him from your window. And if he’ll beat a man bloody in plain sight of so many windows, he probably wouldn’t have much trouble finding a way to silence you.”

“It’s fine, Newt,” Credence says. “It’s not that big of a deal. He just roughed the guy up. It’s not like he killed him.”

Newt argues, “Still. I’d rather you somewhere safe for a spell. At least for a few nights. Please.”

Credence sighs. “Newt, really.”

“I’m serious, Credence.”

“How about this,” Credence counters. “Let me live my life, and if I feel threatened or if I’m being followed or something, I’ll contact you, alright? I don’t want to impose and—”

“It’s not an imposition,” Newt interrupts.

Credence closes his eyes and lets his hair hide his face for a few heartbeats. “I like my space, Newt. I don’t want to leave my apartment.”

“Your safety—”

“Isn’t threatened,” Credence says.

Newt stares at him for a few moments, then says, “Yet.”

“Exactly,” Credence agrees. “And if that changes, I’ll contact you.”

He’s displeased, Credence can tell. Newt lets his ginger hair hide the disappointment in his eyes as he lowers his gaze, and he bites his lip. It’s his way of keeping himself quiet when he’d rather argue further. “You said you have a new subject for your portfolio,” he says, changing the subject as he knows Credence wishes.

And Newt really is an amazing friend. Credence grins and says, “Yes. I’ve been inspired.”

“By fear?” Newt asks, meeting his gaze cautiously. Though, Credence’s enthusiasm must be clear, because Newt smiles a bit.

“Fascination.”

Newt chuckles. “If you’d like some tips on how to study dangerous creatures, I’m happy to offer you advice.”

“I haven’t even told you what it is.”

“It’s that man,” Newt answers sagely. “It’s Mr. Graves.”

“He’s just a guy who beat up another guy and has an interesting name,” Credence mutters. How easily Newt can read him is a bit embarrassing, and even after over four years of friendship, it’s still unsettling. Newt has always been incredibly empathetic, able to read even the slightest shift in Credence’s mood. To be the subject of such attention had been overwhelming at first, but Credence soon found comfort in someone knowing him so well. Newt has never and will never use it against him. It isn’t in Newt’s nature to be cruel. “It’s enough for me to extrapolate on. Maybe my professors will finally think I’ve created something innovative.”

Newt snorts into his coffee.

“This might be my contribution to the body of artistic work in my field.”

“A study of a man who is literally, as you’ve seemed to describe him, ‘tall, dark, and handsome’?”

Credence’s face flushes so hot and fast, he feels like he’s been slapped. “I-I never said anything about him being handsome,” he argues.

“Ah, but he _is_ handsome,” Newt says around another bite of muffin. He grins, and before Credence can defend himself, he says, “I know you, Credence Barebone. And you’ve never shown an interest in a stranger the way you are with this man.”

“It’s not like I’ll ever see him again,” Credence mutters. “It was an instant. A moment. So what if I draw inspiration from it? Haven’t you ever met eyes with someone on the street and your imagination just runs wild with possibilities?”

Shaking his head, Newt says, “Nope. Not the artistic type, I’m afraid.”

“You’re hopeless,” Credence laments, smirking.

“Not as hopeless as you are over this _Mr. Graves_.”

Groaning, Credence hides his face in his folded arm and says, “Please don’t say his name like that. It’s really embarrassing.”

“Bullocks. It’s just a bit of fun,” Newt replies. He reaches across the table and pushes back Credence hair in that way that always soothes him. “Just be careful, alright? Please. I don’t want you getting mixed up in something dangerous.”

“I won’t,” Credence promises, voice muffled by how he still hides his face.

Newt’s chair scraping across the floor bids him to raise his head, and he watches with faint disappointment as Newt gathers his bag and finishes off the last of his muffin. “I’ve got a meeting I need to run off to,” he explains. “Text me later and let me know how you’re doing?”

“Sure,” Credence agrees.

“Be safe, Credence,” Newt says.

“I will.”

Credence follows Newt as he weaves through the tables of the crowded cafe, how he holds his bag up and against his back so it doesn’t bump into anyone. And once he leaves the building, Credence watches him still as he crosses the street and hurries down the opposite sidewalk. After glancing at the clock on the cafe wall, Credence really should get going himself, rush back to campus so he isn’t late for his next class. And he’ll go—he never misses class, even if he’s sick—but he’s in no rush, and the professor isn’t strict with punctuality.

Instead of chugging his coffee, Credence pulls a pen from his pocket and sketches on one of the extra napkins Newt had brought to their table. With light strokes so as not to tear the soft paper, Credence draws a rough outline of Mr. Graves’ furrowed brow, his tight jaw, his broad shoulders, and his swirling coat. He draws the smoke of his cigarette and the gleam in his dark eyes. It’s not a masterpiece by any means, but it reinforces the image in Credence’s mind, forces his hand to familiarize itself with the shape of Mr. Graves’ form.

He can’t shake the feeling of watching a predator, a great jungle cat. And even as he gathers his bag and abandons the napkin sketch, Credence wonders of this thrill sparking through his limbs is the same sort of excitement Newt feels when he studies animals. If it is, Credence realizes, it’s the first time he’s ever felt _passion_.

Hopefully, it will translate onto the canvas.

 

###

 

It does not, in fact, translate onto the canvas.

Days have passed since Credence discovered the existence of a man named Mr. Graves. In his ravenous curiosity, he even did a Google search of the name in the local area and only came up with a few articles about some venture capitalist working downtown. They were very boring, uninteresting articles sans photographs, so it did Credence no good. Though, he realized, it probably wasn’t the same man, anyway. A broader search indicated that _Graves_ is a fairly common last name. Not as common as Smith, but common enough that without a first name, Credence would never be able to find him.

His sketchbook spiraled into a menagerie of shadowy figures and experimental blood splatter techniques, of villainesque coats and burning cigarettes. But as time passed and his reference material grew, the memory of Mr. Graves shifted and warped, lending more to an _impression_ than a _recreation_. And when it came time to swath an image onto canvas for his next project…

“Barebone, explain to me what you’re trying to achieve,” the instructor says. His arms are folded across his chest, and his brows are raised high in expectation and anticipated disappointment.

Credence isn’t eloquent when it comes to describing his process or his work. He prefers to have others infer what they will from what they see. It’s a weakness he’s struggled to overcome since his first prerequisite course. He licks his lips and meets his instructor’s gaze. “I’m not quite sure,” he admits unsteadily.

“Then what’s the inspiration for this?” the instructor demands, waving to Credence’s canvas. “What you’ve given me so far in your rough drafts is more a character study for an animation course than fine art.”

A few snickers and chortles resound through the large studio from his classmates.

“Perhaps he’s the personification of my personal demons,” Credence audaciously states. “And I’m attempting to exorcise him through the paint.” Self-consciously, he pulls down the sleeves of his shirt, a gesture his instructor keenly notices. The pock scars on his arms are one of Credence’s greatest shames—there’s no hiding how his flesh had been used to grind out the hot end of a cigarette or cigar. And even decades after the wounds have healed, the marks remain. He hates the pitying looks they garner, but he can’t exactly have his sleeves dipped in paint and dragged across his canvas. “Haven’t other artists done the same?”

The instructor sighs. “See me after class, Barebone.”

“Yes, sir.”

Instead of focusing on the dozen or so eyes set upon him, Credence returns to his painting. He rolls up his sleeves and dives back into his dark palette of color to continue the faint strokes that compromise Mr. Graves—or what he remembers of him. The coat and the cigarette are the most prominent features Credence recalls. That, and his smile. There rest is all an impression of power, so Credence makes sure to mind lines and shadow and perspective and negative space. The rest of the class passes quickly as Credence sketches some, then paints some more.

He stops by the instructor's desk before leaving, as asked.

“What is it you wanted to discuss?” Credence sighs, watching forlornly as the rest of his classmates leave the studio. The sun sets, its reds and golds sharp to his unaccustomed vision. He hates sunset and twilight. It plays too much with color and depth, makes him feel like the ground could disappear from under him at any moment.

The instructor answers, “Your performance.”

“What about it?”

“It’s not as it was.” Credence frowns, but his instructor continues, “There used to be such life in your work, such untapped potential. But this last semester has shown a lack of passion, I might say.”

Credence adjusts his portfolio bag and averts his gaze. “How do you suggest I improve?”

“Well,” the instructor answers, “this new study of yours is interesting, to say the least. I still think it’s more appropriate for an animation course, but if you put your prior lessons to good use on this subject, I think you could have a collection worth showing. Especially if the study is so personal to you.”

“It is,” Credence lies.

“Alright, then,” the instructor responds. “I’d like you to submit to me some concept sketches by next week. The end of the semester is coming up and, if you can get these pieces done and done well, I might be able to slip you into a spot at the gallery. You’ll need at least four works.”

Credence snaps his gaze to his instructor, brows furrowed incredulously. “You want me to submit sketches and compose four new pieces by the end of the semester? That’s less than three weeks.”

“I wouldn’t offer this to you if I didn’t think you could do it, Barebone.”

Scoffing skeptically, Credence rolls his eyes. “You’re asking for a miracle.”

“I’m asking for you to _work,_ ” the instructor corrects. “Don’t pretend your record is such a secret. Everyone in the department knows how effortlessly you skate by, riding on raw talent instead of skill.”

“I _am_ skilled,” Credence argues.

With a shake of his head, the instructor counters, “Not skilled enough. Not enough to earn a Master’s of Fine Arts.”

_Not enough. Not enough. Not enough._

Credence tries not to flinch, but when his instructor's expression collapses into sympathy, he knows it didn’t work.

“Look,” the instructor says, “the university offers resources if you need someone to talk to. Sometimes therapy—”

“My art is my therapy,” Credence interrupts. “I don’t need to talk to anyone when I can just sketch or paint.” And he sounds like a petulant child even to his own stubborn ears.

“Fine,” the instructor says. He raises his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m reserving this opportunity for you, Barebone, because I have faith you can do it. Get me those compositions by the end of the week, and four completed pieces by the end of the semester. I’ll make sure you have a spot in the gallery showing this season.”

“Why are you doing this for me?” Credence asks. “There are plenty of other students who are _enough_.” He spits the word like a curse.

“They don’t make what I want to showcase,” the instructor says.

Credence sneers, “And I do?”

“Yes,” the instructor replies simply. “You do.”

 

###

 

There are only two instances in his past where Credence has sequestered himself to madness for the sake of his art.

The first was when he was in middle school and his mother left him alone for a week while she went on a mission to Nicaragua. It was shortly after his father left, during the hot summer months. Credence was so filled with grief and longing, he locked himself in his bedroom and filled no less than three sketchbooks with varying pieces ranging from realism to abstract. He researched techniques and worked his fingers numb, his hands to cramping, until his mother returned home. He doesn't have those sketchbooks anymore. Before his mother threw them away in a fit of rage, he salvaged a few pages from the trash—ones that weren't so badly stained with food waste and booze. He keeps them folded carefully in a shoebox under his bed.

The second time also happened during the summer, but this was the summer between his first and second years of undergrad. He felt like a man possessed. He couldn't sleep and he couldn't hold a thought long enough to translate it into a sentence. Thankfully, he'd befriended Newt by this time, so he was kept fed and hydrated as he painted and painted and painted for nearly two solid weeks. A total of seven large canvases depicting grotesque, gothic, horrors of the Seven Deadly Sins came from his spiral. Upon Newt’s insistence, Credence showed the pieces at a small local art collective with bandages around his aching wrists. Not only did it earn him a bit of fame and the recognition of his university department heads, he also managed to find a buyer. Credence parted with all but one: Wrath. It had been the most personal of the pieces, and he felt a piece of his soul existed somewhere beneath the layers of paint. Thankfully, the buyer wasn't disappointed. Once Credence's wrists healed, he painted a different iteration of Wrath fit for sale. The buyer wrote an outstanding article in the paper for him in return.

Credence has never been able to call forth the thing within him that enables him to exist solely for his craft. He doesn't know what sparked the second episode, but the first was undoubtedly due to his father leaving. Still, to meet his instructor’s deadline for the gallery spot, he'd have to somehow summon that obsessive madness a third time, and of his own volition.

“I don't think I can do it,” he confesses quietly into his phone. He sits in his apartment staring at a canvas. With his composition sketches quickly approved with only a few corrections, the painting should come easily. But it doesn't.

Newt sighs into the line. “If you want this opportunity, you have to.”

“I've never had to force my art before,” Credence laments. “It's always come naturally. It just...happens.”

“Maybe this is the skill your instructor was talking about,” Newt suggests. His British accent, faded slightly with his years in America, is heavier now than usual. It's a sign of how tired he is, and when Credence glances to the clock, he realizes he's probably woken Newt from a dead sleep with his call.

Credence sighs. “Maybe.”

“Have you tried painting drunk?”

“I get dizzy enough with the turpentine,” Credence laughs. “I shouldn't need to drink in order to paint.”

“No,” Newt agrees around a yawn, “but you won't get anywhere if you're forcing it. I think it's a matter of headspace. You need to command _that_ and not the art itself. If that makes sense.”

“It does,” Credence responds. “I'll try that. Thanks, Newt.”

“Anytime,” Newt slurs. “I'll be by in the morning with coffee for you. Be sure to drink plenty of water.”

Credence smiles, his chest warm with his friend's concern. Were he to show the slightest romantic interest, Credence thinks Newt would be the ideal boyfriend. Sometimes it's hard not to tell him how much he loves him. “Of course,” Credence promises. “I'll see you in the morning.”

Newt hums something like an affirmative before disconnecting the call, leaving Credence alone and in the silence and with his blank canvas.

Credence holds his phone reverently between his hands until the screen goes dark, then sets it on the night table beside his bed. He doesn't have many friends and his relationship with his mother is strained. There's no one to call him now that Newt’s asleep. And there's work to be done besides.

Heaving a breath, Credence folds his arms and stares at the canvas. Taped to the wall beside the easel are his approved sketches with his instructor’s notes. He _knows_ what he has to do. It's just a matter of doing it. Unlike with many other skills and disciplines—or maybe it's just his instructor—it’s clear when a work is forced or done lazily. If Credence wants that gallery spot, he can't fuck it up. But he also doesn't have the luxury of time.

The image of Mr. Graves gazing up at him from the alley is one that haunts Credence's dreams. Sometimes he dreams from the perspective of Mr. Graves, beating some doppelganger of himself senseless while his mother cheers for more blood. Sometimes he dreams of Mr. Graves calling out to him where he sits in the window. Sometimes he dreams he's shoulder to shoulder with Mr. Graves, sharing his cigarette.

Whether from the experience itself or his obsession over it, it has become the focal point of his every creative thought, the underlying current to the rhythm of his life. Every time his pen meets paper or his brush meets canvas, _something_ related to that night appears: a trail of smoke, a long shadow, a hunter’s smirk in the night. Credence even did a brick study just to pass the time in one of his art history classes, because _bricks_ translate to _alley_ which translates to _Mr. Graves._

And even if Mr. Graves isn't exactly the personification of Credence's personal demons, he is an entity that has possessed Credence and needs its own exorcism.

Credence grabs a pencil of soft graphite and begins to sketch upon the canvas. No matter how awkward it feels, no matter how unnatural, the fact that he's even fixated so on a stranger is the source of it all. _That_ is the unnatural part. _That_ is what's stunting his art. But he cannot ignore the thrill of creation, the excitement of obsession. It's madness, yes, and madness is what he needs if he's to meet his instructor’s deadline.

Mr. Graves reminds Credence of Death.

Credence paints.

 

###

 

There are stories of souls or energies being trapped in images. Mirrors, too, which merely reflect the image of reality back at the viewer. They span cultures and centuries, the belief that a person’s likeness, recreated with intent, can generate or exert power. Credence is aware of the beliefs, though he doesn’t personally ascribe to them. Still, he lost time. He lost an alarming amount of time. It’s never happened before, and he wonders, vaguely with a clinical distance, if he actually _did_ summon something to possess him. If that something is somehow woven into the images he created.

Between when he disconnected the call with Newt and meeting with his instructor to turn in his four completed pieces, Credence can’t recall much. He can recall sensations and feelings, dream-like impressions of what happened in those three weeks. He knows Newt made sure he was fed and hydrated, because Newt reminded him of it, but he can’t name what he ate or drank. He knows he worked a few shifts as a currier, because there’s a paycheck with his name on it, but he can’t define his routes or even his customers. He knows he took a final in another class, because there's a posted grade, but he doesn't remember what he'd studied. He knows he painted, because there are four canvases his instructor mounted on one of the gallery walls.

_The Deathly Hollows, by Credence Barebone, graduate student,_ the small information plaque reads.

The gallery is small but renowned. Not only does it host the works of world-wide and famous established artists, it also features notable up-and-coming artists. They have a close relationship with the university and offer the department to market and display the work of their most talented students. There’s an atmosphere to the gallery that Credence still hasn’t quite found the words for, but he enjoys it. It’s soothing despite how intimidating his professional competition is. It’s quiet regardless of how many people mill about between the displays. The contrast of light and shadow are prominent, so Credence doesn’t feel overwhelmed. Soft greys and whites adorn the walls to contrast and highlight the works displayed, the floor a dark wood where women’s heels click with their slow, distracted gait. Credence thinks, were he ever to have a studio of his own, he might fashion it after this gallery.

Of all the displays, his collection attracts the most visitors. He keeps count, as does his instructor who patrols the area like a prison guard. Dressed in a wine collared shirt and dark grey slacks, Credence watches those who stop and admire his work. He holds a champagne flute and lingers in the shadows, away from the bright spotlights of his display. He doesn't know why so many people are interested in his collection—there are plenty of other equally interesting and similarly composed displays—and because he can hardly recall even painting them, he hopes to gain some insight by observing the gallery goers. He’s stood there for nearly an hour, and so far he's learned nothing.

“You should mingle,” Newt says, and his sudden appearance beside Credence is startling. He's a few champagne glasses in, and there's an adorable ruddy flush to his cheeks. It highlights his freckles, his copper hair. Credence considered using Newt as a color study in the past, but refrained for fear of straining their friendship.

Credence absently brushes back a stray curl from Newt’s face, wishing faintly, and not for the first time, that Newt was interested in men. “I have no desire to mingle,” he says. “I'm still...off-kilter.”

“You were in quite the thrall,” Newt agrees. “You had me quite worried.”

Smiling into his glass, Credence says, “I got the work done, didn't I?”

Newt hums. “You did. This might be your best work yet. Not that I’d know,” he explains. “I'm just repeating what I've heard others say tonight.”

Credence laughs. “Thanks for the intel. Should I call you Mr. Bond?”

“Shoot me first,” Newt mutters. He puts a hand on Credence's shoulder and says, “You should talk with some people. Networking is important in your field. Don't waste this opportunity.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, but Credence says, “Fine. But don't hover.”

With a smirk curling his lip, Newt says, “I'll busy myself. Signal me if you need an intervention.” A discrete hand gesture they'd developed early in their friendship. It helped Credence with his social anxiety in the beginning; now it's just a way to exit awkward situations.

Newt disappears into the crowd, and Credence returns to his people watching. An interesting couple stands before his display, the woman's arm locked around the man's. Though they seem familiar, Credence wouldn't describe them as intimate. Friends or siblings perhaps. The woman's voice has a teasing lilt as she talks, and the man replies with a low rumble. The man's coat looks familiar, but the memory is vague, like something he might have seen while drunk. It’s a stark contrast to the woman’s periwinkle coat, and he can’t shake the aesthetic of Hades and Persephone. Credence abandons his champagne on a nearby table and approaches them.

“Percy, if I didn't know any better, I'd say these were of you,” the woman says, and Credence stops just shy of the lights. “Look, he's even wearing your coat.” There's a smile in her voice, which is reassuring, as she playfully tugs the man's sleeve. “You don't know this—” She squints at the artist plaque. “—Credence Barebone, do you?”

“Can't say I do,” the man replies.

Credence stops abruptly when he sees the man's profile. Because even from the side, he recognizes Mr. Graves.

Mr. Graves who's walked the shadows of his nightmares. Mr. Graves who's the force behind the paintings he currently admires. Mr. Graves who unknowingly upended Credence's art.

“Would you like to?” Credence boldly asks. He steps into view of the lights wearing his warmest smile. “I'm sorry to intrude, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation. I’m Credence.” He extends his hand first to the woman, who beams and takes it.

“Tina,” she introduces herself.

And when Credence moves to shake Mr. Graves’ hand, there is undeniable recognition in his dark eyes. His smile looks like a snarl, like what he wore that night in the alley when he found Credence watching him. Regardless, he takes Credence's hand in a firm, intimidating grip. Credence worked his hands to aching in his thrall, so it actually hurts, but he doesn't flinch. “Percival,” Mr. Graves says. He releases Credence's hand and nods to the paintings. “You're quite talented.”

“Thank you,” Credence answers humbly. “I worked very hard to have my pieces displayed alongside the rest of the art in the gallery.”

Tina’s smile is radiant, and Credence's budding anxiety immediately eases. She says, “I'm no expert, but I think your work absolutely belongs on display. There's such power and emotion in what you've made. What inspired you, if I may ask?”

With a small grin, Credence meets Mr. Graves’ gaze for a few bold heartbeats before looking back to Tina. He says, “Just a chance encounter with an interesting stranger.”

Her eyebrows arch in surprise. “And it left enough of an impression to make these?” She waves her hand towards the paintings.

“He had a very unique energy about him,” Credence explains.

“I was just telling Percy how the figure reminds me of him, even down to the billowing coat,” she laughs.

Credence laughs too, then makes a clear assessment of Mr. Graves’ coat as if to corroborate the joke. It is, indeed, the same one he wore that night. Credence might not have been able to recall it perfectly, but he recognizes it as if it's a part of himself. It’s become such with how often he’s recreated it on paper or canvas, anyway. “I can definitely see the resemblance,” he says. He stands at Mr. Graves’ side and faces his artwork. To Tina, he says, “As an artist, I’m always intrigued by what viewers infer or project onto my work. If I might be so bold, what is it about the painting that reminds you of Percival?” He chuckles softly, then adds, “Beyond the coat, anyway.”

Tina delicately covers her mouth as she, too, laughs lightly. After a moment’s pause, she says, “Well, his stance for one. How you have your figure positioned makes me think if Percy closing a particularly important deal.”

Percival scoffs, and Credence sees him roll his eyes from the corner of his vision. “That is not how I close deals,” he mutters.

One of the paintings depicts Mr. Graves exactly as Credence remembers him looking up at his window from the alley, and Tina points to it. “And this one here,” she says. “The brows are almost exactly the same. I’d recognize them anywhere.”

Heaving a sigh, Percival says, “That’s enough, Tina.”

“And what of you, Percival?” Credence asks.

“What of me?” he counters.

“Do you see yourself in the paintings as Tina has?”

Percival pins him with eyes as intense as those from that night. Again, Credence is on his window sill, unable to look away even if he tried. But he _doesn’t_ want to try. In fact, for the first time since Newt approached him nearly five years prior, someone actually _sees him._

“Tina,” Percival says, never letting Credence escape his gaze. “Can I speak with Mr. Barebone alone? I think I’d like to make an offer for one of his pieces.”

“An offer?” Credence repeats, voice soft with disbelief. Surely, Mr. Graves is lying. Surely, this is a rouse. Surely—

But Tina only smiles and pats Mr. Graves’ shoulder in parting before she heeds his request and disappears deeper into the gallery. Credence doesn’t know if she’ll linger just out of sight, ready to aid Mr. Graves in whatever it is he has planned for Credence. And oh God, how did he think this was a good idea?

He doesn’t dare look away from Mr. Graves’ dark dark eyes, but he can’t see Newt in his periphery. With a hand behind his back, he closes his fist with his forefinger and thumb extended, hoping against hope Newt will see it and intervene.

“Yes,” Mr. Graves says. “An offer.”

“Which piece are you interested in?”

Mr. Graves steps forward until there’s barely a few inches separating them, and though Credence is, in fact, taller than Mr. Graves, Mr. Graves still somehow manages to loom over him. They’re nearly eye to eye, but that palpable power he exudes wraps around Credence’s throat and chokes him as effectively as a well-placed hand. Credence is small in the face of it, weak beneath it. He swallows, and his throat clicks. Newt is nowhere to be found, and Credence lets his hand fall out of the distress signal.

“You’re very bold, Mr. Barebone,” Mr. Graves murmurs, voice a rough growl. And yes, Mr. Graves does, in fact, have an accent. Something European, something akin to Newt’s, but softer. “To capture my likeness in such an _intimate_ setting.”

“Not as intimate as I could have done,” Credence counters.

Smirking with that predatory gleam, Mr. Graves croons softly, “You’d like that wouldn’t you, boy?”

Credence licks his lips. When Mr. Graves’ eyes flick briefly to the movement, Credence’s fingertips tingle. “Is that the offer you’re making?”

Mr. Graves blinks, and all posturing and pretense fades. His expression softens, and his shoulders relax. When he smirks, there’s amusement within its curl instead of aggression. “I’m amenable to exploring options you might find more favorable.”

With renewed confidence, Credence smiles, no longer intimidated, but just as intrigued. If Mr. Graves is a demon, this is how Credence falls to his seduction. He welcomes it. “Coffee, then,” Credence says. “And if you still want to buy one of my paintings, we can discuss the price then.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card with his name and contact information, grateful he’d heeded Newt’s advice to have some printed.

Mr. Graves takes the card and slips it into the inside chest pocket of his coat. Then, he takes Credence’s still outstretched hand in another one of those remarkably strong grips. It isn’t a show of power this time, but instead, feels like a warm reassurance. Credence doesn’t know if he can trust it, but he wants to. “You’ll hear from me soon, Mr. Barebone.”

Credence squeezes Mr. Graves’ hand in return, in what he hopes is understood as invitation. “I look forward to it, Mr. Graves.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Paloma,” Percival sighs. “Paloma, listen to me, alright? Listen. This deal isn’t a bad one. I promise you.” He pauses and nods, despite being on the phone. Because her answer honestly isn’t that important, he doesn’t bother to pay attention to it. Instead, he swivels in his office chair to gaze out over the city skyline from the vast windows that constitute an entire wall of his office. It’s a bit dreary out for a Wednesday, or perhaps it’s befitting—thick, grey clouds overhead to darken the natural mood of the middle of a work week. Percival isn’t sure.

It’s easy to let Paloma continue to yammer on insecurely, far easier than it is to bolster her confidence, but what sort of broker would he be if he couldn’t revive a person’s faith? “Look, just close with the client. They came to us, remember? They _want this_ , and I know you can persuade them to heed our very professional and informed advice. I wouldn’t have assigned this to you if I thought you’d fail.”

With crossed legs, he swings his chair back and forth, elbow propped on the armrest to hold the phone to his ear. The springs beneath him squeak softly with the motion, and while he typically does it just to annoy Tina out of his office, he doesn’t really mind the sound. It’s rhythmic, far more so than his colleague griping on the line. He plays with the business card a brazen young artist handed him. He spins it idly, tapping each edge against his desk while he waits for the noise in his ear to settle. There are, however, limits to his time and patience.

“Paloma, I can’t sit here and talk you through every deal and contract of your career. That’s not to say I don’t care to mentor you, but there’s a difference between mentoring and, you know, doing your job for you. Instead of calling me for reassurance, perhaps you should call Abernathy for assistance. He’s worked this sort of deal before. He should be a good asset to you.” He smirks when she stammers an apology, but says, “Don’t worry. I’m not offended. I’ve just—”

Thankfully, a call comes through on the other line. He turns to the phone, and it’s Tina, according to the ID.

“I’ve just got a call on the other line I need to take, alright? I have every confidence in you, I do. Yes, very good. Alright. Thank you.” And he immediately switches lines. “Tina, thank fucking God. You’ve no idea what I just had to—”

“You have a visitor, Mr. Graves,” she says. Her voice is bright, but clipped—something’s amiss, though he doesn’t know what.

Unfortunately, when he’d returned from a meeting, he’d closed the blinds of the large glass panels that partition his office from the greater corridor of the floor. He glances to the calendar at the corner of his desk, just to check and no, as he suspected, he isn’t expecting anyone. “Who is it?” he asks.

“An _associate_ ,” she answers. “He says you wouldn’t be expecting him.”

“Well, I’m not,” Percival snaps. His _associates_ know better than to visit him at his office, though he has an idea what business might be the matter.

“Mr. Graves,” Tina warns.

He groans; the first beats of a migraine pound between his eyes. “I’ll be out in a moment.” He hangs up before she can answer, and looks longingly at the crystal liquor decanter he keeps atop the far bookshelf. It’s generally for entertaining clients, but sometimes it’s the only thing that gets him through the day. After his conversation with Paloma, he’s really not in the mood to play any nicer than necessary. Still, he slides away from his desk and stands, fixing the cuffs of his shirt as he crosses his office.

Upon opening the door, he finds Tina standing at her desk with a pinched, forced smile—he supposes he took too long to emerge. A man stands at her desk, clean cut and sharp, though there’s a glint of questionable intent in his light eyes. He’s too close to Tina’s desk, and Tina is standing too rigidly, her face too forced into an image of feminine pleasantry.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Percival demands. He storms over to them with enough bluster for the man to startle, which pleases him. He’s pleased further when the man turns away from Tina and faces him directly, expression stoic. His wide eyes, however, give away his disquiet; that, and the fluttering pulse beneath his jaw. The man holds out the manila envelope he carries, and Percival looks down to it with a raised eyebrow, before meeting the man’s gaze again. Making no move to accept it, Percival asks, “What’s this, then?”

“The research,” the man explains, “that you requested. I was instructed to deliver it to you personally.”

Percival heaves a sigh, then snatches the envelope. “Were you also instructed to make my staff uncomfortable?”

“I had no intentions of making Ms. Goldstein—”

“Enough,” Percival interrupts, and the man falls silent, as he should. He tears open the envelope and peers at the contents. He fingers through the pages within, then looks up to the man again. Softly, he says, “I’ve given explicit orders this location is off-limits. Please explain to me why those orders have been disobeyed?”

“Given the urgency of the request, my superior thought it prudent to fulfill it as quickly as possible,” the man explains. Though he shifts his weight minutely from foot to foot, he doesn’t break Percival’s gaze, and he wears a mask of neutrality. “So, I was sent to deliver it only to you. I apologize if I’ve offended Ms. Goldstein.”

“Has he offended you, Tina?” Percival asks, glancing over to where she stands. It’s a relief that she seems relieved, her eyes less defensive and offering more of the warm honesty he expects of her.

“No, Mr. Graves,” she answers. “Only startled.”

To the man, Percival turns with raised brows and a disappointed frown. “Oh, that sounds worse. You’ve _startled_ her.”

“My apologies, Ms. Goldstein,” the man stammers, and he offers her a placating nod.

Percival hums. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again. Startling my staff or visiting my office. Tell your superior that as well.”

“Yes, Mr. Graves,” the man says. He steps backwards for a few paces before spinning on his heel and hastily making toward the elevator.

After watching him go—the closing elevator doors offer a sense of finality to the ordeal—Percival turns to Tina. “If something like this ever happens again—”

“I couldn’t tell you with him standing right there,” Tina hisses. “And he wouldn’t take a seat to wait for you.” She sits down behind her desk, expression quietly pleading. Her large, doe eyes glance worriedly around the open area, assuring that passersby won’t overhear them. It would be too conspicuous for them to go into Percival’s office—they both know it. “This may be a public place, but that doesn’t mean—”

“You’re safe here,” Percival says quietly. Tina’s words fall away, but she nods when Percival adds, “You’re always safe here.”

“Alright,” she answers. “I’m sorry, Percy. I just...”

“I know.” With a soft sigh, Percival pinches the bridge of his nose.

The last few weeks have tested Percival, to say the least. Moving product and fixing numbers, late night meetings, and dogging _associates_ to do their damn jobs. Percival’s marked with more bruises than he can count and has clocked less sleep than he needs to function. Tina, bless her, tries to fill in the gaps, shoulder some of his burden though she’s no obligation to do it. The evening at the art show was an attempt to get him to unwind and enjoy himself. Instead, he came face to face with a goddamn mistake he let slide. He confessed his blunder to Tina, of course, as his run-in with Credence Barebone left him wholly unnerved. They both know what he needs to do, what he’ll be _ordered_ to do should anyone learn of it. He just...hasn’t done it. It bothers him like an itch between the shoulder blades he catch scratch, and not even Tina could find a good reason for him to follow through. He’s never hesitated before, and neither has she.

He’s forced to do the next best thing.

“It’s fine, Tina,” he says. “Really. I’m the one who should be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“Percy…”

“I think I’m going to take the rest of the day,” he says. He runs a hand through his hair and heads back toward his office. “You can, too,” he adds over his shoulder. “Go get some rest. Enjoy a glass of wine or something. I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

###

 

Oftentimes, it’s difficult for Percival to follow his own advice. But given the unique set of circumstances he finds himself in, he has no qualms with leaving the office early to return to the solitude of his own apartment. It’s a penthouse, really, an expansive swath of space high among the city skyline that is much too large for a man like him: single, always working. Comprised of modern straight lines and accent color, superficial luxuries he rarely has the opportunity to indulge, it’s almost sterile. It’s a house, not a home. A dwelling; somewhere to lay his head, aching from always looking over his shoulder. Thankfully, he has _some_ company.

Oberon curls up on the couch beside Percival. His large head is a warm weight in Percival’s lap, and he absently strokes the dog’s soft ears in an unintentional rhythm that soothes them both. He cares for his dog as much as possible, and when he can’t, he has Tina and her sister, Queenie, to help. Oberon, Percival reasons, is both a weapon and a companion; bred and trained to be a guard and attack dog. As a black German Shepherd, he falls on the larger end of the spectrum for his breed, and is far more game than other dogs Percival has had. He’s deadly and terrifying, and Percival loves him for it.

Percival sips from a tumbler of whiskey and holds a burning cigarette between his fingers as he reads the reports delivered to him earlier that afternoon.

He isn’t easily rattled; most people assume he’s as intimidating and dangerous just from his posture, his tone of voice, the intensity of his gaze. He’s never worried about witnesses of a shake-down because New Yorkers, by their very nature, tend to mind their own business. Never in his wildest dreams had he ever considered a witness to be an artist, and for that artist to then be brash enough to engage Percival as a subject for his work. It’s an indirect form of publicity, almost as incriminating as a photograph, and if Percival’s superiors were to discover the nature of the situation, Credence Barebone wouldn’t live long enough to gain the acclaim he seeks.

Nevermind how in one of those startlingly accurate paintings, Percival’s likeness had an inky black canine companion. That night in the alley, that night Credence Barebone depicted so vividly on canvas, Percival _did not_ have Oberon with him.

Were he as superstitious as his grandmother, he might liken Credence Barebone to a fae. With his fair skin, sharp cheek bones, and impish smile, he could easily be an ethereal creature merely playing human. His talent alone—how he somehow remembered even the finer details of Percival’s image, twisted them into universally understood impressions—is enough for Percival to tread carefully.

 _He had a very unique energy about him_ , Credence had said regarding the inspiration for his work. Percival wonders if he meant it in a figurative or literal sense; if he could see energies like a mystic or fae, or if he only meant to describe a vague sort gut feeling. As a boy, Percival was told often that he had an air about him, a way of existence that demanded attention and commanded obedience. It was this air, his grandmother explained, that encouraged his father to groom him as he did.

Percival takes a drag of his cigarette and turns a page in the report.

Credence Barebone, only child born to an unremarkable Joseph Barebone and an alarmingly remarkable Mary Lou Barebone. Joseph disappeared from the public record and, it seems, from the planet approximately thirteen years after Credence’s birth. Mary Lou filed a missing person’s report, but never bothered with a follow up, and never hired a private investigator to pursue her delinquent husband for child support. Percival studies the photographs of Credence’s parents included in the paperwork and has absolutely no idea where the young man got his striking good looks. Perhaps there was an affair that led to Credence’s birth? Not that it really matters, but Credence is far too handsome to be the offspring of these two.

Percival continues reading.

Several charges of child neglect were filed against the Barebones, both before and after Joseph’s disappearance, though none of them resulted in effective intervention. Shortly after her husband left, Mary Lou traveled to Nicaragua on a mission with her church and left thirteen year old Credence to fend for himself for a few weeks. Over the years, school teachers reported injuries to Credence’s hands and arms—lacerations, burns, and bruises. Some required immediate medical attention; emergency room visits after nasty infection festered. There are photographs included, and they churn Percival’s stomach. He sets his cigarette in the ash tray on the side table and takes a deep gulp of the whiskey.

Pages and pages of abuse and neglect, and it’s only what Percival’s people could find. It doesn’t include the day to day toxicity of such a home, of such mother. Percival can only imagine, but it’s not as if he hasn’t already heard this story. Credence is neither the first nor the last child to suffer at the hands of their parents. Credence is neither the first nor the last child to be ignored by the very systems developed to protect them. Though, with Mary Lou’s keen focus on Credence’s hands, Percival wonders how the boy grew to be an artist.

Despite the copious information he managed to attain about Credence—up to and including hospital and school records—there’s nothing about him that Percival would mark as a threat beyond the young man’s innate overconfidence. He steers clear of the law, never made or filed a complaint about his mother, never bothered to run away. According to the paperwork Percival holds, if anything, Credence meets all the criteria for someone who would keep their head down and their mouth shut.

Though, Credence has done the exact opposite.

“He’s unpredictable,” Percival mutters.

Oberon’s ear twitches beneath his hand.

“Maybe you should meet him,” he muses, looking down to the dog that rests against him. “You’ve a nose for snakes, haven’t you?”

After reluctantly lifting his head, Oberon fixes Percival with something akin to disinterest. Percival gave no command, and Oberon has little reason to pay him mind beyond it. Still, he watches Percival with unilateral focus, the way only a dog can.

Percival pets his head and scratches behind his ear. “Maybe one day. For now, I think coffee will do.” Credence _could_ pose a threat, but that doesn’t mean he _will._ And if Percival can avoid bloodying his hands any further, he’d prefer it.

Two days have passed since Percival met Credence Barebone, and he has all the information he needs to feel confident with meeting the young man again.

He pulls his cell phone from his pocket and the business card he’s kept beside it as a personal reminder. He punches in the number and sends Credence a text message.

 _Are you still interested in coffee? Because I’m still interested in making you an offer_.

He doesn’t bother signing or giving his name. Credence will know who he is. After all, he’d taken the time to master capturing Percival’s very essence with paint; and charcoal, and graphite, and probably a slew of other artistic mediums that weren’t displayed at the gallery.

The phone chimes and flashes with an answering text message moments later.

 _I’m a graduate student, Mr. Graves,_ and Percival can almost hear the droll in the text. _I’m always interested in coffee. How’s tomorrow at 1pm? At the café two blocks north of the gallery._

Percival smirks, and replies, _It’s a date._

###

 

It’s the middle of a work day, but it’s not as if Percival has many people to whom he answers. He gets his work done, and he gets it done well, so he’s generally free to do as he pleases. Both a blessing and a curse, considering how many hours he clocks from his home.

Tina questions him silently as he passes her desk from his office.

“Coffee,” he explains, shrugging into his coat. He tucks his scarf around his throat and adjusts his sleeves. It’s a bit of a nervous tick, and it gives away the line of anxiety pulsing right along with his heart.

“With the artist?” she asks, her smile wise and amused.

“Would it be such a crime?” Percival counters.

Tina sighs and shakes her head. “No, but I would caution against it.”

Percival pauses, abandons his previous notions of quickly leaving. He shifts his weight, and with his hands in his pockets, faces Tina directly. This, from the woman who’s encouraged him to get out more. This, from the woman who took him to the art gallery in the first place. “Why’s that?”

After pursing her lips thoughtfully, Tina meets his gaze and says, “Because I know you, Percy. You have a weakness for pretty faces.”

He considers arguing the point, but there’s little use in denying the truth—especially to someone who knows him as well as Tina does. “I’ve no reason to—”

“Just be careful,” Tina gently interrupts him. Her large, dark eyes are wells of emotion, worry the most prominent.

Percival remembers, suddenly and poignantly, the last time his affections had been used against him. Tina had been there when he shattered, picked up the pieces despite how his sharp edges made her bleed. It’s an intrusive thought that has no business in his head as he’s about to meet someone. Honestly, it’s a thought that has no business in his head at all. The past was laid to rest, along with that courtship, relationship, and the woman’s body. “I will,” he promises, anyway. It’s the least he can do, and it seems to assuage some of her concern, and consequently, his guilt.

“Should I cancel the rest of your day?” Tina asks, resting a head in her hand.

Furrowing his brow, Percival says, “I don’t rightly know just yet. I’ll text message you?” He pulls out his phone and messages his driver to meet him in front of the building. The gallery, and the café where he intends to meet Credence Barebone, is just far enough away to warrant a drive instead of a walk.

Tina’s exasperated sigh is fond, and Percival grins at her in response. She says, “Fine. Just let me know as soon as possible. Abernathy tends to throw fits when you aren’t around to consult.”

“It’s because of the Ilvermorny deal,” Percival mutters. “It’s practically finished, and he just needs to close. There’s nothing more for me to do.”

“Oh, but he’s _intimidated_ , Percy, don’t you see?”

“By what?” Percival groans. “Picquery is just a woman.” Offense immediately paints Tina’s features, so Percival continues quickly, “As in, she’s mortal. She’s skilled and persuasive and lovely, sure, but she’s not some goddess sent from on high. She’s human. She’s not to be trifled with, but she gets on with me just fine. She’s not someone to _fear_.”

“Not to Abernathy,” Tina retorts.

Percival snorts. “I hardly see how that’s my problem.”

“You want the deal to succeed, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Percival's phone chimes with a new message. The car is waiting for him.

“Then it’s your problem.”

Rolling his eyes, Percival says, “Please bore me with Abernathy’s woes another time, Tina. My driver’s arrived.”

Tina laughs, bright and happy. “Have fun, Percy. Tell Marcus I said hello.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Percival waves her off before heading to the elevator.

With the elevator to himself, the descent is silent, and beyond the usual pulse of his office building, so is his trek through the lobby. Outside, the city is alive with car engines, pedestrians talking into their phones, and the chilly wind that whips between the buildings. Just beyond the glass doors of his office building is his black car, with engine idling and utterly indifferent to the expired parking meter.

Percival climbs into the backseat and gives the driver, Marcus, the address to the café.

The commute is equally silent. There’s rarely much he and Marcus discuss. However, “Tina says hello.”

Marcus chuckles. “Give her my regards when next you see her, Mr. Graves.”

They had a brief affair with Percival’s blessing. A few dates, a drink or two. Nothing came of it, blessedly, though they remained friendly. Tina said they didn’t have the proper chemistry. Marcus said he wasn’t worthy of her. Percival knows both statements are true.

“You can always give her your regards yourself,” Percival answers. He checks the time on his phone, and though he hadn’t given Marcus the details of his appointment, he knows he’ll arrive punctually.

Marcus hums. “Perhaps. But I know she’s busy, and I’d rather not take the time she can better spend elsewhere.”

“You’re a decent fellow, Marcus,” Percival says. “She wouldn’t mind hearing from you, I’m sure. I should warn you, however, she’s met someone.”

“Oh?” Marcus looks at Percival through the rearview mirror. “Judging by your tone, I can’t tell if this is good news or bad.”

Percival shrugs. “Some ginger fellow with a strange name. Nathan? Norman? I don’t know. Met him at an art showing we went to the other night.”

“And he had the nerve to approach her while you were there?” Marcus laughs. “He must be rather bold or incredibly stupid.”

“He was drunk,” Percival sighs. “And I was attending other business. She seemed charmed, though she won’t admit it. You know how Tina is.”

“That I do, Mr. Graves,” Marcus says.

“Watch your familiarity,” Percival automatically grumps. Though he smirks because he isn’t truly ill-tempered about it. “Just because you paid for a few dinners for her doesn’t mean you can speak of her so casually.”

“I wouldn’t dare, Mr. Graves,” Marcus promises, grinning. “I’m just agreeing with you out of courtesy.”

“Good on you for that,” Percival laughs. “That’s why I pay you so handsomely.”

“That, and my work, I imagine,” Marcus adds. “We’ve arrived.”

Percival nods and opens the door. “Thank you, Marcus,” he says. “I’ll message you when I’m ready to depart.”

“Of course, Mr. Graves,” Marcus answers. “Enjoy your meeting.”

Climbing out of the car, Percival leans into the still open backseat and says, “Oh, I plan to.” Then he slams the door shut and rounds the back of the vehicle until he climbs onto the sidewalk.

The café is a quaint little establishment, chic with its vintage décor and eclectic music. Percival’s visited a few times in passing, quite taken with the atmosphere and general aesthetic of the establishment: stained, repurposed wood, and slats of recycled aluminum, low-hanging lights above the individual tables with a handful of local art pieces hanging on the walls for sale. Their coffee isn’t exactly his favorite, but it’s worth its price and more than worth the peace sitting in a shaded corner offers. Their pastries don’t compare to Jacob’s, but for the proximity to his office, Percival tolerates them.

He approaches the counter and orders something akin to his usual: a sugary drink where syrups and creamer sharply curb the bitter espresso. A dollop of whipped cream and a dash of cinnamon, and Percival gratefully accepts his drink before turning to scan the various occupied seats of the café. There are students with their laptops and textbooks doing homework, couples leaning intimately over the table to whisper to one another, and, after spotting the rapid movement of a waving hand, Credence Barebone. Percival nods his recognition, then weaves through the occupied tables to join Credence at his, sitting opposite him. They’re near a window, and while Percival hates having his back to the door, he’s glad the distraction won’t take away from Credence. Credence really is a sight to behold.

He really does have a weakness for pretty faces.

Neither the photographs from his research, nor the dim lighting of the art gallery did the young man any justice. In the natural light falling through the glass beside them, Credence’s hair falls in gentle waves around his face that remind Percival of raven feathers, and his fair skin that of a doll’s—flawless and stark against his locks. His eyes aren’t an inky black to match his mane; no, they’re a deep brown, like fresh brewed coffee, or soft earth after rain. His features are sharp: the angle of his nose, the ridges of his cheeks, the edge of his jaw. Credence’s lips, however, are gently bowed, as if shaped to specifically contrast the rest of his countenance and to deceive onlookers into believing his tongue is just as soft. It isn’t. Percival knows just from their one, fleeting interaction. Credence’s tongue is just as sharp as the rest of him.

“I worried you wouldn’t show,” Credence says, mildly subdued.

“I agreed to a meeting,” Percival answers. “I’m not one to go back on my word.”

Credence has his own cup of coffee, into which he smiles as he takes a sip. He wears a well-worn jumper beneath a tailored coat, though the coat certainly isn’t tailored to him. There are awkward bunches of fabric at the shoulders that tell Percival it’s a second-hand item. The handful of holes in his scarf also indicate a thrift-store purchase, or at least significant age, and Christ, is this really the same person he met at the gallery? There, Credence had presented so well with his plum shirt and snug-fitting grey pants. Had there been no need to assess what possible threat Credence could pose, Percival would have taken him home that night. “I’m glad,” Credence says, setting down his cup. He draws Percival’s attention back to his face. “Your message said you’re still interested in making an offer. Shall we skip the small talk and get right to it?”

Percival hums around the coffee in his mouth, and after he swallows, says, “What sort of deal are you looking to make, Mr. Barebone?”

“Credence,” he impulsively corrects. “Call me Credence, please.”

“Credence, then,” Percival repeats, lip curling into a faint smile. It’s the first he says it aloud on its own, no matter how often he said it in his head reading reports on him. “What are you looking for?”

“I’m not sure,” Credence says. He frowns slightly at his coffee cup. Because of the plastic lid, Percival can’t see how light or dark he takes it, and then he wonders why such a thing even  matters. “At first, I thought you wanted to buy my art, but now…”

“But now…?”

“What are _you_ looking for, Mr. Graves?” Credence asks, meeting his eyes with a bold sort of assertion. He wrangles the conversation from Percival’s control with only a glance, the set of his jaw, how he looks at Percival and sees right through him.

Percival licks his lips, then says, “You’re being bold again, Credence.”

“Boldness is a necessity in my line of work,” Credence answers.

“As in mine,” Percival counters. It’s enough for hesitation to wash over Credence’s previous confidence, and Percival can direct the conversation once more. “That said, I’m happy to offer you whatever price you deem fit for your art.” He takes a sip of his coffee.

“Ah,” Credence says, bitterness lacing his tone. “That’s what this amounts to.”

“I imagined that’s all it would amount to,” Percival remarks. “After all, you’re an artist and I’m sure you’ve bills to pay. Surely selling your work is a way to earn an income.”

Credence shakes his head, and a few tendrils of feathery darkness obscure his lovely face. Percival grips his coffee cup a bit tighter to resist the urge to reach across the table and tuck it behind his ear. “You’re not wrong, Mr. Graves,” Credence says quietly. “However…” He stops and sighs. He rolls his eyes and opens his arms where they rest upon the table as if subtly pleading. “Look, there’s no reason to deny what we both know about my display in the gallery. The only reason I even produced anything worthy of a showing was _because_ of my inspiration.”

“You aren’t very good at discretion, are you?” Percival asks.

“Not with this,” Credence agrees. “Not with my work.” He averts his gaze for a moment, visibly mustering nerve or courage. “I want to continue with this subject. It’s challenging and demands the most of me and actually satisfies my fucking shitty, elitist professors.” He pauses long enough to meet Percival’s gaze again, and no, this Credence is so vastly different from the one he met at the gallery. This Credence is raw and so very young. “But I know what I’ve done, and I’ve done it without consent, and it wouldn’t have been much of a problem if—”

“—if we hadn’t met,” Percival interrupts. “So you’re facing a moral dilemma, then.”

“And a legal one,” Credence adds.

Percival scoffs. “I’m not interested in suing you, Credence. You needn’t worry about that.”

“Maybe not,” Credence concedes. “But there are other things you can do to me.”

“I’ve already said that I’m amenable to exploring options you might find more favorable,” Percival explains, and it’s natural at this point in the exchange for his voice to drop, take on a rough edge like a purr. Credence’s cheeks redden a pinch, and Percival smirks. “Think on it,” he adds. “And completely removed from it, I’d like to buy the painting with the dog. Name your price.”

His eyes widen as if Percival slapped him, and he straightens his back as if incensed. His pink lips fumble to form words until Credence finally says, “I…I don’t know what I’d charge for it.”

“I’m not going to haggle with you over it,” Percival sighs. “I don’t care how much you want for it. It’s just the one I’m interested in purchasing. This doesn’t have to be complicated.”

“No, I understand that,” Credence says, quickly. “I just legitimately don’t know what I would ask for in exchange for that piece. It’s actually…the least composed for the four.”

“Well, I happen to fancy it,” Percival counters pointedly. “So I’d like to have it. I’m in no hurry. You can take your time. Balance your books or whatever. Is there an outstanding bill you need paid? Supplies to buy? Figure out how much you need and let me know.”

“What about the…rest?”

“The rest of your pieces?” Percival asks.

“No,” Credence clarifies. “The rest of this situation.”

“Maybe you should think on that, too,” Percival comments. Despite how his cup is more than half-full, he loses interested in his coffee, and if he allows the conversation to continue, the subtly of the exchange will be lost. Though Credence is brazenly and brashly bold, Percival is more calculated. “You also might want to consider your proposals before you agree to a meeting. You knew what my interests before coming here. It’s bad business to waste someone’s time like this.”

Credence hurriedly says, “I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” Percival interrupts, raising a hand to placate Credence’s upset. “I’m not offended. It’s just unsolicited advice. Heed it as you please.”

“Are you leaving then?” Credence asks, and the face he wears is legitimately distressed. So distressed, in fact, that Percival reconsiders his departure.

“Not quite yet,” he lies. “Though I’m not sure what more you could want from me.”

“Your accent,” Credence blurts. He reaches desperately for something to discuss, to talk about, and Percival wonders what, exactly, Credence had been expecting when he proposed this meeting. “Where are you from?”

“Here,” Percival teases, smirking. “But my family is from Ireland.”

“My best friend is British,” Credence explains. “When I first heard your voice, I thought you might be from the UK.”

“Aye,” Percival agrees. “It’s faded over the years. I regain it when I travel, though, so there’s that.” He sighs, then leans across the table. Subtly will not do with Credence Barebone, and Percival was foolish to think it would. Softly, he says, “I know you’re worried about me hurting you, Credence. I’ve no intentions of it. Lay that fear to rest, alright?”

“Why should I trust you?” Credence demands, just as softly.

“Because if I wanted you hurt, you’d already be hurt,” Percival answers.

Shaking his head, Credence says, “That…does the exact opposite of making me feel better.”

“It’s not meant to make you feel better,” Percival explains, annoyed. “It’s meant to inform you of the situation, because you’re clearly running on some wild assumptions.”

“They’re not wild when I’ve witnessed it!” Credence hisses indignantly.

Percival spins his coffee cup so its thick paper bottom scrapes along the tabletop. He watches the rotation of the café’s logo with a vague sort of disinterest, knowing that if he were to stare Credence down, he’d only frighten him further. “You haven’t given me a reason hurt you,” he says. “And I honestly don’t think you will. You’re bold with your artwork, but I think you’ve realized the gravity if your decision at this point. Am I right?”

“Yes, sir,” Credence answers, subdued. And no, this is not the direction Percival intended this to go.

“You don’t need to ‘sir’ me, Credence,” Percival drawls. “Just be a bit more discrete, and there shouldn’t be any trouble. You’re not the only one your artistic statements affect, alright? And I still want that picture with the dog.”

Huffing a soft laugh, Credence says, “Alright.”

“You have my number,” Percival says. He pushes back his chair and stands, collecting his drink. “Call me once you’ve determined your price, or if you’re interested in another date.” He smiles at Credence’s then, relishing his flushed, flabbergasted expression that pushes his brows nearly to his hairline, his cheeks remarkably ruddy. Christ, he’s beautiful. Tina was right. But before Credence can get a final word, Percival turns and leaves the café as efficiently as anything else.

Though, from over his shoulder, he hears Credence’s shocked voice: “D-Date?”

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr: [foxtricks](http://foxtricks.tumblr.com/)  
> and follow me twitter for general shenanigans: [@_foxtricks](http://twitter.com/_foxtricks/)


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